My Pen

Life is full of stimulating thoughts. I think how funny some interaction is with a friend and how I’d love to capture it. It pleases me to learn to write dialogue you see. When some amusingly ironic moment occurs, my mind automatically begins composing it to share it with everyone I know. Sometimes, a moment is just so beautiful, so precious that it is full of poetry. The words that flood my mind feel so rich and sweet that I wish my mind had a tongue that could taste each flavor of word. They are each like a sun warmed peach just plucked and bitten into. Writing them down feels like the juices of life running down my chin and the back of my throat. I want to write. I crave to write.Writing doesn’t flow well withoutmy own space though. Some how my creative self functions best at a certain megahertz and if I’m off a notch or two, I just can’t get anything but static when it comes to writing.More than anything, my body wants a routine, which is the same each day and in time with what the sun is doing. More than anything, my body wants the space to do yoga without suitcases or furniture in the way. I wish for my desks to spread out my school books and leave them without worry of them being in the way of someone else. More than anything, I really want to open the bathroom door and find my stuff right where I left it, day after day. I wish to have a fridge to fill with all the stuff I love to eat, and go intothere each day and think what to create to make my tummy happy. Instead I am eating off whatever I can find or sharing what others like to eat, hoping I don’t become a hippo along the way. I want to see dust on my stuff that’s normal dust, not dust from packing or unpacking. I want a place to invite my friends to dinner and a movie.Once I heard another writer say to me that poetry and prose travels on the winds of time. “If I don’t catch them with my pen when they come along, they will find another pen instead, because they are like any living thing needing expression. Their force of life is just as pressing as mine is. They need to land on a page and take up the space fully, not wander around an empty room where the writer never goes.” Being unsettled so much right now, seems to make me like that empty room where the writer in me never goes.

Recently a man who loves to read what I write told me that I shouldn’t give up my passion and my dream…I should write. I should go to a college for writing and do the thing I most wish to do.

I did not say a word in response. I don’t have a word for this….for there are some things that only emotions can describe and I cannot put those on a page. They must be felt to be fully understood. It is like telling a blind person about color. You might describe that this particular shade of purple-blue feels like a grape or perhaps a plum, but that does not really describe the color. It only shares something of it which can be understood by the person who knows what a grape or plum looks like. But only another writer knows what it is like to feel words compose themselves in your head and to feel that sense of urgency, awe and excitement to feel a poem or a paragraph come to life. When this happens to me, I feel as if my mind has become ordered; that all the chatter that goes on in my head at any given moment, has become arranged like a jewel with the light on it. It is exciting to feel the urge to write and to feel the pen that I am be used rightly and well by this living thing.

I am many things. I am a healer, a writer, a lover, a teacher, a ceremonialist, a leader, a follower…Even if you don’t see all of me, it is still there, quiet and powerful in the dark. Even if I am silent about those things which I hold dear and which spread quietly into any space I go to, even then, I am still those things undescribed, or untraveled even by most who know me.

Once a man said to me that he felt uncomfortable looking into my eyes because I went on forever. Once a man said to me that’s what he loves about me.

Each time, I was only me. Whether I am undescribed and untraveled or thoroughly explored and played like a fine old instrument, I am me. I wish to be the pen. I need to be the pen. I crave to be the pen.

Today, despite having so much to do, so many essays to write, so much to read, so many equations to solve, places to be and chores to do, I sit with the juiciness of life and let the words claim my pen and let the happiness flow into and through me. I feel such a smile all over…sighs…

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8 thoughts on “My Pen”

Your passion for writing is sooooo evident, there is no reason for you to respond or try to convey your emotions…they are on display with every piece you write. It will always be a huge part of who you are, regardless of where life takes you.

I love this posting, found myself nodding along with so much of it, both in recognition of who you are, and of an understanding of how those magical moments sometimes occur where all the words line up right and its as if we are as much conduits of the poetry and prose as the originators of it.

William Shakespeare

Walt Whitman

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Get Sexy and Soulful

A candid and poetic discourse about Remus and Shannee. We are in our 50's. Our children are grown and now we are focused on building a life that pleases ourselves. This includes making friends, doing work that satisfies and traveling as often as we can. Shannee has been writing and publishing poetry since 2006 under various guises; even her real name.